


Anyone's Ghost

by energetically



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Ghost Hunters, Angst, Danny Phantom Inspired, Developing Relationship, Drama, Enemies to Friends, Eventual Smut, Friends to Lovers, Ghost Hunters, Hazing, Humor, M/M, MCD, Multiple Relationships, Nahyuck, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Sexual Humor, Slow Burn, johnmark, lumark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:20:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29133195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/energetically/pseuds/energetically
Summary: After a freak accident caused by one of Yangyang’s defective gadgets, Mark must juggle college, relationships, and his new life as a human-ghost hybrid while uncovering the many secrets buried beneath his college town.
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Mark Lee, Liu Yang Yang/Xiao De Jun | Xiao Jun
Comments: 34
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone!
> 
> I want to give special thanks to Saint, Aliya, Andy, Coffee, and KP for listening to me complain about this fic (and previewing it) and Mel for translating some English to German for me!
> 
> As mentioned in the tags, this fic is inspired by Danny Phantom, one of my favorite childhood shows growing up, so I hope I'm able to do it justice by any other fanatics out there! This fic is slow burn so MarkHyuckists hang tight!
> 
> Last but not least, this fic does involve ghosts so minor death may be involved. If that makes you uncomfortable please do not read.
> 
> Enjoy!

In his two years of university, Mark has learned three absolute truths about Darbrooke. 

First, the quaint town has one default setting: rainy and gray. Very rarely does the town experience the true effect of all four seasons, something Mark had grown up with back in his hometown. Mark was accustomed to inches of white snow in the winters and scalding, unforgiving heat waves in the summers, but all Darbrooke ever offers are neutral days of dusky gray, light mistings, or heavy thunderstorms. The unchanging weather doesn’t seem to faze the mixed demographic of residents, ranging from well off college students to hipster entrepreneurs. If anything, the weather only adds to the town’s aesthetic and charm of unknown coffee shops with dangling bulbs and rustic bookstores that smell of sweet musk and ink. It had taken some time to get used to, but Mark is nothing if not accommodating.

Second, the town’s namesake university is big on sports. The statement itself seems like a given, because what university campus isn’t filled with extreme pride for their own sports team? But Darbrooke University appeared to be a unicorn among the collegiate world of athletics, especially for a university that’s barely on the map.  _ Everyone  _ attends  _ every _ football game, home or away, donned in red horned headbands, some painted in coats of red and black paint, all fully amped and ready to cheer on the Darbrooke Devils to another victory. Of course, after attending three games, Mark had realized that victory was a pipe dream when it came to the varsity team. They sucked. There’s no beating around the bush or sugar-coating it and no amount of disdain or condemnation could ever persuade him to fork over another $25 for a nosebleed seat ticket and $15 for stale nachos and a watered-down soda.

And third, perhaps just as surprising as the university and town’s devotion to an underdog sports team, is the overwhelming support and celebration of Halloween. The Hallmark holiday is given barely a few nods back home. His neighbors didn’t bother decorating for one night and opted to set large bowls— sometimes  _ garbage bags _ — of candy on their porch just to avoid the stilted exchange with snaggletoothed children and overbearing parents. The smart kids did their trick or treating before dusk and the  _ even _ smarter kids waited until November 1st to purchase massive amounts of discounted candy for less than a dollar.

But in Darbrooke, Halloween started as early as August 1st, decorations, and themed candies hitting the shelves of the local grocery store before most students returned to campus for the fall. Retailers preemptively decorated their storefronts with paper bats and skeletons and Mark couldn’t round any one corner on campus without seeing a pumpkin perched by every entrance of every building. In autumn, Darbrooke became a mosaic painting of reds and browns from fallen leaves sticking to the wet ground and muted oranges from a surplus of Jack o’ Lanterns. Mark likes Halloween; the cult support of the dark holiday never swayed his opinion in any particular direction during his freshman and sophomore years.

But  _ junior _ Mark Lee has had  _ enough _ .

An indignant groan slips past his lips as he steps across the quad, right foot sinking an inch deeper than his left. He closes his eyes and angles his head towards the overcast sky, a light drizzle wetting his cheeks as he lets out a breath and dares to peak down at his sneakers. It isn’t mud like he half expects and a part of him is grateful his Friday night won’t be spent scraping dried dirt and wet grass from his soles. The other part of him winces at the mess of shredded orange pulp and seeds wedged between the neatly pulled shoestrings. The remnants of a frowning Jack o’ Lantern stares back at him, smushed and soggy, sagging onto the rain lacquered sidewalk, and Mark doesn’t dwell on what the fuzzy and discolored patches on the side of it are.

He huffs and kicks pieces of the shell off of his shoe, frowning when the whites of his sneakers stain a faint orange that’s not liable to wash out, even with a generous amount of bleach. He nods, pursing his lips together in response to the generous helping of “fuck you” the universe has decided to unleash on him so early in the afternoon, and pushes forward towards the Student Services Center.

Donghyuck barely looks up when Mark slings his backpack onto the table out front— one hand gripping his phone, the other precariously holding a forkful of mixed greens— and remains just as cemented when Mark pulls his own chair out with a jarring scrape.

“If I step in another pumpkin I swear to God,” Mark mutters, collapsing into his seat and scooting forward towards the table. He places his to-go box of food on the tabletop with a haphazard toss, pushing the styrofoam clasp open with his thumb. “Two months is too long to have pumpkins sitting out in the rain.”

Donghyuck snorts, finger scrolling across his phone screen. “You could just pay attention to where you’re walking like the rest of us.”

Mark frowns, halfway through unwrapping his sandwich. “Is it so much for you to agree with me for once?”

“I don’t believe in enabling people,” Donghyuck shrugs, eyes still glued to the screen. After a couple more seconds of scrolling through Instagram, he sets the device on the table and stuffs the lingering bite of salad in his mouth. He reaches over to pinch Mark’s cheek, smearing a sliver of vinaigrette on Mark’s skin. “It’s for your own good.”

Mark angles his face away from Donghyuck’s sticky touch, brows still squished together as he focuses on the sandwich in his hands. 

“What are you whining for?” Donghyuck retracts his hand and stabs his fork into his salad again. “Halloween’s tomorrow. We’ve got bigger things to worry about.”

The bite Mark takes out of his sandwich is humongous, tomatoes and lettuce sliding out from the latter half and landing with a soft plop against the styrofoam to-go box. He shakes his head with enough emphasis to draw Donghyuck’s attention back to his profile as he swallows down the bite, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

“No way,” he scoffs, reaching for his bag of chips. “There’s no way  _ that’s _ gonna happen. Not after last year.”

Donghyuck’s lips curl into a devilish grin and Mark pretends like he doesn’t see it even when he’s sure Donghyuck can see him watching out the corner of his eye. 

“Care to make a wager on that,  _ Mork _ ?” Donghyuck asks, pushing the now empty salad container to the center of the table and sinking back into his seat. “I don’t need the extra money but I’m always up for additional bragging rights.”

The voice in Mark’s head is loud:  _ Don’t take the bait. Don’t take the bait _ . His track record with unprecedented wages per Donghyuck’s suggestion has rarely, if ever, fallen in his favor. But every time a bet is brought up, some part of him— a part buried deep,  _ deep _ within him— ignores all forms of history and eggs him on to take the bet for the sake of wiping the all-too-smug expression off of Donghyuck’s face. Donghyuck, being the Psych major that he is, had said that “loud and unignorable” voice is Mark’s  _ id _ . Mark, being the Donghyuck skeptic he is, hadn’t hesitated to fact check via Google.

And of course, Donghyuck had to be right about that too.

“Alright,” Mark gives in against his better judgment. He looks at his watch and clicks his tongue. “It’s already past noon. He would’ve found us by now.”

Donghyuck’s smile never falters as he offers a noncommittal shrug. “It’s your wallet, not mine. Twenty bucks?” He extends his hand out.

Mark looks at the offer, a brief moment of contemplation about shaking hands with what might as well be the literal devil, but shakes away the doubt, clasping his hand firmly against Donghyuck’s. “Deal. But no prompting him or pushing him in that direction.”

Donghyuck withdraws his hand and sighs happily. “I don’t have to. Because it just so happens that I saw Yangyang in the food pavilion about fifteen minutes ago with his laptop  _ and _ backpack.”

“Which backpack?” Mark slows.

“His  _ tactical _ backpack.”

Fuck.

Donghyuck scoots one seat over— probably reading the stream of expletives and threats crossing Mark’s mind— and pushes himself out of harm’s way. “Don’t worry though,” Donghyuck adds, taking the unopened bag of chips from Mark, pinching the material between his fingers until it rips open. “I could be wrong.”

Mark groans. Donghyuck is  _ never _ wrong.

The bet feels more like a trap now, a sticky situation that Mark only has himself for blaming because he  _ knows _ better by now. Any optimist or even a great gambler would tell him that the odds are in his favor— Donghyuck can’t possibly win  _ every _ game of chance. Eventually, the underdog will have his day. But much like the school’s football team, Mark is 0 for 10 from this year  _ alone _ and the likelihood of a sudden victory is slim to none.

Donghyuck’s halfway through the bag of chips and Mark has half a mind to snatch the bag back to give himself  _ some _ form of control over the situation, but Donghyuck directs a bright smile towards him, the corners of his mouth curling before his eyes trail over Mark’s shoulders.

“Hey Yangyang.”

Mark swivels his head around just in time to see Yangyang’s oversized backpack slam onto the table, skidding a few inches shy of Mark’s. Yangyang pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and places his laptop on the tabletop next, quickly opening it and typing in the password with swift dexterity. Mark chances a look at Donghyuck and wishes he hadn’t. The smile is still there— smug but patient.

“Yangyang-” Mark’s words are cut off by a brief  _ shh _ , Yangyang holding a finger up automatically, eyes focused on the laptop’s screen for a few seconds more before he straightens upright and tall, a grin stretching across his face.

“My friends,” Yangyang says, resting his hands on the corners of his laptop. “Do you know what today is?”

Mark hums. “Mmm Friday?”

“No,” Yangyang frowns before a pregnant pause. “Well, yes, but that’s not—”

“Is it the day you finally convince someone to date you?” Donghyuck quips, clearly catching on to Mark’s teasing.

“I—”

“No, it’s not that,” Mark directs his attention back to his sandwich, corner of his mouth quirking upwards. He widens his eyes, feigning surprise, and points at Yangyang. “I got it! They finally started serving 100% real beef hotdogs in the dining halls,” he says as Donghyuck blanches.

“No!” Yangyang exclaims, dropping his palms flat against the table, closing his eyes to sigh. “It’s October 30th. Halloween Eve, my friends.” He shoots a hard look at Donghyuck. “And I can get dates, okay?”

Donghyuck shrugs, extending his hand towards Mark, and wiggles his fingers. “One, no one that says “Halloween Eve” gets dates, and two, Halloween is an eve itself, Yangyang. There is no Halloween Eve.” Donghyuck says. Mark exhales sharply and digs deep into his pockets for his wallet.

“Maybe not in your outdated textbooks,” Yangyang says. “But in the paranormal community, the day before Halloween is a powerful thing.”

“You mean your nerd herd,” Mark deadpans, slapping a twenty-dollar bill in Donghyuck’s hand.

Yangyang draws in a breath before slowly releasing it. “I  _ told  _ you. We prefer  _ entity enthusiasts _ .”

“Of course you do,” Donghyuck pops the last chip in his mouth, crumbling the bag.

“The  _ point _ is, my ignorant friends,” Yangyang paces around the short perimeter of the table, “some strange shit is about to go down tomorrow in the spiritual realm, and I’m going to be prepared for it— ” He pauses then shrugs, “ — given the town’s history, of course.”

Donghyuck scrubs his hands across his face and Mark sinks low into his chair with a groan, head falling back against it. “Please,” Mark whines. “Not this story again.”

Without further prompting, Yangyang whips his laptop around to face Mark and Donghyuck, a PowerPoint presentation fully loaded on the entire screen with a picture of the university and the words  _ Darbrooke and the Damned _ typed across the green background in Chiller font.

Yangyang pulls a tiny remote from his pocket, a satisfied smile returning as he points it at the screen and the slide transitions to the next one with a star wipe. “1869,” he says, projecting his voice so loud that a couple of students straggling out of the Student Service Center give them annoyed looks. “General Lex Darbrooke, or “Darby'', as they called him, leads a small army in what is deemed _ the Battle of Ignorance _ , mainly because the battalion unrealistically believed that the pen is mightier than the sword and therefore the sword must be mightier than the rifle.”

“I actually  _ wish _ you won the bet,” Donghyuck mumbles loud enough for Mark to hear.

“Star wipe to our next slide,” Yangyang continues, a graphic effect of blood splattering across the screen, causing Mark to startle and Donghyuck’s neck to bend forward, one brow raised. “35 lives are lost, including the General’s— all buried beneath the scene of the battlefield. Star wipe to our next slide— 60 years later in 1939 when Darbrooke University is built on the very same burial ground as that great battle—”

“Question,” Donghyuck raises his right hand, rubbing his temple with his left.

“Yes Donghyuck?”

“Why the  _ fuck _ does every transition have to be a star wipe?”

Yangyang glares. “Please reserve all questions until the end of the presentation, thank you.”

“But we already know this,” Donghyuck interrupts again. “You’ve told this same story for the last three years. We’ve  _ been _ here. Isn’t it time to give all of this supernatural shit a rest?”

Donghyuck looks over to Mark, eyes pleading and insistent, and Mark shifts in his seat. “Yeah dude, maybe it’s like, time to you know, give up the ghost.” Mark pauses. “And I just realized why that’s probably not the best metaphor to use right now.”

Yangyang places the remote on the table and clasps his hands together, leaning forward. “Are you  _ kidding me _ ? My thesis for graduation is due in exactly one year. Do you know how hard it is for a Paranormal Science major to write a paper with no evidence whatsoever?”

“Isn’t that like, the whole basis of your major though?” Mark asks.

“Exactly. Which is why now, more than ever, is the prime time for my investigations.”

Donghyuck reaches across the table and pushes Yangyang’s laptop closed with the tips of his fingers and drags his arms back to fold together. “But your “investigations” lead to dead ends and your gadgets never work. Remember last year,” Donghyuck points at Mark. “When he thought his lab partner was possessed?”

Mark snorts and nods lazily, refocusing on Yangyang. “And you made an “extractor” gun to “suck the spirit” out of her?”

Yangyang pouts, arms crossing as he averts his friends’ gazes. “So,” he huffs. “Her hair grew back.”

“Too bad the cat’s didn’t,” Mark says.

“Or freshman year when you thought your advisor was the human portal to the spirit world?” Donghyuck ticks off his finger.

“So what!?” Yangyang faces the two of them, throwing his arms up. “He let me keep my major and the restraining order expires in two months.”

Donghyuck shakes his head and heaves a deep sigh. “Face it, Yang. You bit the bullet wasting two years on this farce major. At least spend junior year trying to do something that makes sense.”

Mark sinks his teeth in his tongue and hesitates before daring to look at the brewing expression on Yangyang’s face. His skin is flushed, annoyance barely contained, and if Mark wasn’t already well-oriented to the heated arguments of Donghyuck and Yangyang, he’d be liable to think Yangyang was seconds away from  _ actually _ exploding.

“Oh,” Yangyang chuckles with bitterness. “And I suppose studying the principles of a man that claims we want to fuck our mothers and kill our fathers makes sense?”

Donghyuck glares. “Freud has  _ other _ valid principles, okay!”

“Ah yes, let’s not forget him toting cocaine as a miracle drug.”

“At least he had  _ some _ evidence to back up his theories!”

Mark feels two heated glares turn his direction and swallows as both Donghyuck and Yangyang let out a forceful, “Mark?”— each desperate to prove the other wrong. Mark hates this. He hates having to be the decision-maker and the tiebreaker, especially between Donghyuck and Yangyang. The two have been bickering buddies since they all met in fourth grade— some arguments minuscule, others warranting a week-long spell of ignoring each other and forcing Mark to pick sides. Regardless of who is right and who is wrong, somehow Mark always gets the bad end of the stick, so he usually opts to stay as neutral as possible until they both cool down several days later.

But there’s hardly a way Mark can escape with their eyes watching his every move— hard and penetrating, both threatening to turn him into stone if he even dares to make an excuse for escape.

Sighing, Mark looks at Yangyang. “A double major in chemistry wouldn’t be a bad idea. You know, for like a safety net.”

Yangyang staggers back, mouth open and hands pressing against his heart. “Of course you side with  _ him _ ,” he points at Donghyuck’s smug expression. “I am  _ not  _ giving up my livelihood for beakers and test tubes and you two are going to eat your words.” He reaches for his backpack, unzipping it with haste.

“No,” Donghyuck says, dragging Mark’s to-go box towards him. He peels the sandwich apart, tossing the processed lunch meat out on the table, and presses the two slices of bread back together. “The only thing I’m gonna eat is this sandwich.”

Yangyang mocks Donghyuck in a high pitched voice, head bobbing side to side as he digs deeper into the bag, a victorious smile growing as his hand stumbles across the object he’s looking for. “Eat whatever you want. As long as you save room for humble pie.”

He places a rectangular board on the table, decorated with swirling black designs and a jumble of black numbers and letters printed on it, and the words ‘yes’, ‘no’ and ‘goodbye’ allocated in different corners.

Mark flinches, nearly toppling over his chair as he stands up and backs away from the table. “Yo dude, what the fuck. Put that thing away,” he says, eyes refusing to leave the ouija board.

Yangyang snickers as he pulls out the planchette and sets it on top of the board. “That’s a lot of flinching for something that you think is a ‘superstition.’”

Mark folds his arms, shrinking into his hoodie. “I just don’t like ouija boards. They’re evil.”

“Actually I think this might be the coolest thing you’ve set before us,” Donghyuck leans forward. “I’m into it.”

“Well, I’m not,” Mark counters. “What the hell do you think you’re gonna accomplish with this?”

Yangyang finally pulls out his own seat, sliding in and adjusting the board until it’s perfectly flat on the tabletop. “I’m going to use it to try and connect with the ghosts lurking around this town. They’re desperate to get out.”

“I’m in!” Donghyuck beams.

“I’m out,” Mark says immediately. “If you don’t put that thing away and burn it immediately, I swear I will never speak to either of you again.”

He’s not superstitious, and Yangyang’s obsession with the afterlife has never crossed the lines of being anything more than a cosplay convention level of fanaticism. But beneath the lingering religious beliefs drilled in from childhood was the dormant fear of the dark arts. Necromancy, seances, and spirits are best confined to the world of cinema and TV and even then Mark is too cowardly to finish any horror or sci-fi movie in its entirety. Both Donghyuck and YangYang are well aware of this fact and neither try to push too much whenever they feel the resistance.

Yangyang sighs, muttering out a dejected  _ fine, _ and returns the ouija board to his backpack. “But tomorrow, I’m gonna prove it. The ghost portal I’ve been making is done and I’ll show both of you that I know what I’m talking about.”

Donghyuck scoots back and stands up from his chair, coming to sling an arm around Mark’s shoulders. “Oh no,” he shakes his head. “ _ We- _ ” fingers gesturing between him and Mark, “are going to Sigma Gamma Pi’s Halloween bash.”

Mark perks up, shoulders relaxing beneath Donghyuck’s touch once the board is safely tucked away. “What really?” he looks at Donghyuck. “I thought you hated them?”

Donghyuck rolls his eyes. “I  _ do _ . But you and your obsession with joining them for the sole purpose of getting your dick wet— ”

“I genuinely like Lucas, okay?” Mark interrupts.

Donghyuck drags his arm away from Mark, leveling him with a stern but concerned look. “If he’s in that frat, he can’t be a good person, Mark.”

Mark has heard things. Hell, the entire campus and town have heard things. Sigma Gamma Pi has a reputation as scandalous as any other fraternity, the difference being they’re just small enough to scrape by the effects of the legal system. Mark would be a liar if he said he didn’t turn a blind eye to some of the rumors he had heard like everyone else. Some of the rumors are vile, despicable, and downright disgusting but everyone is innocent until proven guilty, no matter how many times Donghyuck rants about it. And there’s no way someone like Lucas would ever tolerate some of the heinous things rumored to go on behind Sigma Gamma Pi’s closed doors.

“Donghyuck’s right. They’re assholes—  _ dumme Arschlöcher _ ,” Yangyang clicks his tongue, a hint of his German accent slipping out. “But it's a moot point because tomorrow,” he stands up to sling his arm on Mark’s shoulder where Donghyuck’s touch still lingers. “You will be helping me.”

“Excuse me?” Mark lifts a brow.

“You owe me remember?” Yangyang beams. “I wrote your paper for you.”

Mark closes his eyes and sighs, wiping his hand across his face with a subtle nod. That’s right. He did.

“Fine,” he sighs out. “Fine.”

Yangyang lets out an excited laugh, clapping his hands together and returning to shoving his laptop in his bag, while Donghyuck shakes his head.

“What kind of English Literature major can’t write their own damn paper?”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


It's not that he  _ can't _ . It's less a matter of Mark being physically and mentally unable to read through an exceedingly boring piece of outdated text and arranging it into the college accepted MLA format. He can do that in his sleep.

It's more that he doesn't want to.

When he was younger and envisioned himself as a writer, none of the scenarios involved analyzing works from dead British Men, comparing philosophical theories, and summarizing stories that have been told and retold in succession. He expected freedom—to let  _ his _ words speak through his pen and not the words of someone else. But after his first year of college and numerous meetings with his advisor, he'd come to realize that university wasn't for passion—it was for livelihood. There’s a clear difference.

It's about money— making money, how much money you can save, how much profit you can make, and how much money you can potentially spend with an increased income. Mark discovered that college was the biggest capitalistic scam of them all when his advisor had looked him in the eye—a few weeks shy of his first semester finals— forehead wrinkled and brows drawn in.

_ "No one majors in Creative Writing Mark. What's the point?" _

Creative writing wasn't a sure thing. It didn't provide a steady income. It was a pseudo major for dreamers and romantics—not for someone who's slated to pack on thousands of dollars of debt. His advisor had interlocked his fingers together before resting his chin on them, analyzing the small frown etched on Mark's face as he took in every word.

_ "If you want to be a writer, then write,"  _ he had said, waving a hand to the side unceremoniously.  _ "But if you want to make money and have stability, I'd consider something more...pragmatic." _

Choosing a major in English Literature had been just as crazy as agreeing to a minor in Philosophy but according to his advisor and more importantly, his parents, it's as practical as he can get. It's still writing, perhaps a bit more formally dressed than the casual fiction novel, and Mark's advisor has connections to top people in high places. So Mark had sucked it up, held it in, and approved the degree change after his first round of university finals. After all, he didn't need a piece of paper to tell the world that he knew how to write. He just needed it to make bank.

Meetings with Mr. Kline after that had been far and few between, so much so that Mark isn't entirely sure where he lies on the graduating spectrum. The random email to meet late in the afternoon feels warranted and makes sense. He's one year away from his diploma—that much closer to his future, and it's about time the one other person obligated to ensure his success shows some effort. But when he opens the office door, greeted by the sight of both his academic advisor  _ and _ his philosophy professor, Mark stops short at the threshold.

"Hey Mr. Kline," Mark slows, eyes traveling to his professor's expressionless face. "And...Mr. Petersen...I—is this a bad time? Am I early or something?"

"Have a seat Mark," Mr. Kline gestures towards the only free seat in the office, smearing his hand across his balding head.

The office is cozy, no different than it had always been the few times Mark visited freshman year, but stepping further inside now felt like being crammed tight into a cigarette box. All of the furniture lies too close together and the room feels unbearably hot. Mark thinks it his imagination until Mr. Kline wipes a bead of sweat from his brow and dries it against his pants leg. Mark chances a gaze towards his professor still sitting rigid in his seat, mouth twisted, arms crossed. Definitely not good.

"Mark," Mr. Kline locks his fingers together and leans into his desk, "do you recall an assignment given by Mr. Petersen a few weeks ago? An essay that you were supposed to write?"

Mark's hands grow sweaty and he grips the arms of his chair. "Oh yeah," he nods, eyes flicking over to his professor. "I turned it in by the due date. Is—was there something wrong with it?"

Mr. Kline extends a hand out. "Mr. Petersen?"

Mr. Petersen undoes the flap of the messenger bag in his lap and pulls out a stapled packet, layered in freshly printed ink, Times New Roman font.

" _ Existentialism and the Absurd, a paper written by Mark Lee, _ " Mr. Petersen recites, eyes hovering over the paper's edge to glance at Mark. " _ Absurdism originated from the 20th-century strains of existentialism and nihilism; it shares some prominent starting points with both, though also entails conclusions that are uniquely distinct from these other schools of thought. All three arose from the human experience of anguish and confusion stemming from the Absurd: the apparent meaninglessness in a world in which humans, nevertheless, are compelled to find or create meaning. _ " Mr. Petersen rolls the paper into a cylinder, both hands squeezing it tight, lips in a frown. Mark swallows.

"It's quite insightful Mark," Mr. Kline nods. "Actually quite surprising for someone who had no interest in a minor in philosophy. How did you come up with such a profound opening statement?"

Mark opens his mouth, but his mind can barely hold a tight fist around the string of words he had never heard until moments ago. Of course, he had told Yangyang to make the paper good, but he had also said  _ believable _ —and there's no way Mark  _ believes _ that he would've written that. Hell, it barely registers that Yangyang had crafted something so well-written.

"You know us writers," Mark shrugs with a nervous chuckle. "When the muse strikes, it really strikes, you know?"

"I'm sure," Mr. Kline smiles, tight-lipped. "And I'm sure  _ you know  _ that the university requires every assignment to be submitted into our school-wide portal for plagiarism and this—" Mr. Kline takes the rolled up essay from Mr. Petersen, "—is the most plagiarized piece of work I've ever seen in my six years of doing this job."

Mark exhales and sinks into his seat.  _ Yangyang. _

"I mean," Mr. Kline chuckles, thumbing through the pages, "we picked up sentences from everywhere. Quotes from Albert Camus that are uncited, Søren Kierkegaard—even Wikipedia!" He tilts his head to the side. "Really? You copied directly from Wikipedia?"

"I honestly don't know what to say," Mark digs his nails into his jeans. "Except for this was a mistake made by a very,  _ very _ , stupid idiot and I honestly should've known better."

"Now don't be hard on yourself. Everyone struggles in college every now and then, but you never  _ ever _ act on your impulses. This—well quite frankly Mark— this is completely reckless and out of character for you. Your grades aren't the best in any of your classes, you're barely scraping by, and now this?" Mr. Kline sighs and opens one of his desk drawers, retrieving a stack of clipped documents. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to put you on academic probation."

Mark leans forward in his seat, frantic eyes darting towards Mr. Petersen and then Mr. Kline. "I—what?!" he chokes out. "I know this is a serious thing but can't we work out a lighter sentence? With this being my first offense and all?"

Mr. Kline clicks his ballpoint pen and shakes his head as he scribbles across one of the forms. "I feel—and Mr. Petersen agrees— that a stricter sentence will ensure that this first-time offense is the only offense." He unclips the filled form from the stack and slides it over to Mark. "If you don't pull your grades up and start acting like a responsible young adult, you're not going to graduate on time."

Mark stares at the empty blank line waiting for his signature and reluctantly takes the pen from Mr. Kline, jotting his name in illegible scrawl. There's only one thing worse than majoring in something you hate, and that's majoring in  _ and  _ failing at something you hate.

Mark lays the pen against the desk and pushes to his feet. "I guess, I should go."

"And Mr. Lee, one more thing?" Mr. Petersen speaks up, grabbing the essay and sliding it into Mark's hands. "I expect an original, Mark Lee essay on Absurdism on my desk on Monday morning. Sans Wikipedia references."

Mark looks down at the essay and nods, heat licking up the back of his neck. "Right. Of course. It'll be the first thing on my to-do list."

Right after he kills Yangyang.


	2. Chapter 2

Mark sidesteps a group of sorority girls trekking across campus, voices piercing the quiet of the night. Their arms link together and their strides fall similar in length and pace as they make their way down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. One step beneath the eery greenish-white glow of the street lights and their bodies illuminate beneath layers of glitter and shimmery bronzer. The light hits their metallic shorts, dancing across the silver lettering on their white tube tops until they've faded out of view into the shadows of night. He's seen a lot of eyebrow-raising costumes over the past few years, but dressing as cans of  _ White Claw _ is a new one.

He turns his attention back to YangYang, a few steps ahead of him, watching as he fiddles with his cellphone.

"Have I mentioned how pissed off I am at you?" Mark says, tugging the strings of his hoodie until they're the same length.

"Mmm, tonight or just in general?" YangYang asks, still distracted by his cellphone screen. "It's kind of hard to keep up with you."

"Why in the  _ hell _ would you give me a plagiarized paper?" Mark groans, tossing his head back to look at the night sky before snapping his attention back towards YangYang. "I feel like I shouldn't have to say  _ don't plagiarize my paper _ ."

YangYang pockets his cellphone and pushes his circular frames up his nose. "And I feel like an English Lit major shouldn't be begging a Paranormal Science major to write their paper," He continues on, leading them across the quad's lawn past the small groups of costume-clad bodies. "Hyuck's right. What kind of English major can't write a book report?"

Mark shoots a glare from beneath his hoodie. "What kind of Paranormal Science major can't catch a ghost?"

YangYang snorts and his lips stretch into a fox-like grin. "All of us. It's kind of our thing."

Mark bristles and moves a few paces ahead of YangYang, not giving in to the playfulness in YangYang's tone. There's a lot of things he can stress over—but his academic standing shouldn't be one them. Not with graduation being a year away. Not with his future being so uncertain and undefined. He's lucky enough to have managed to be placed on academic probation and not completely dismissed by the English department altogether. No one wants to publish anything from someone accused of hocking someone else's work.

Somewhere from behind him, he hears a sigh slip past YangYang's mouth and feels his presence hovering to the left of him within seconds. "Look, I'm really sorry," YangYang says. "The guy I bought the paper screwed me over."

"Is that supposed to make it better?" Mark grunts.

"No," YangYang says. "But it's the only excuse I have."

Mark stops in his tracks and closes his eyes. "Why am I even helping you right now? It's Halloween and instead of being at the Sigma Gamma Pi party, I'm here with you on some whacked out excursion to the research labs just to watch you tinker with another failed invention."

YangYang folds his arms and frowns. "Hey, just because you got in trouble doesn't mean you should shit on my dreams. At least I'm doing my  _ own _ work."

Mark looks at him— eyes hard and icy enough to send YangYang a step or two backward. "Don't. Say. Another. Word." He shivers beneath a rolling breeze, feet skidding to a stop every so often to avoid a lit jack o'lantern or to avoid a sticky mess of melted chocolate and scattered wrappers on the sidewalk. "Let's just get to the lab and get this over with. It feels creepy walking around campus this late on a Saturday. It's not normal."

"Are you kidding me?" YangYang's lips spread wide. "This is the best time to be out! We, in the paranormal community, call this the haunting hour. It's that sweet spot right before midnight when the moon is the highest and the spectral frequency is off the chart." He stretches both arms out and heaves a content sigh. "What could be better?"

"Literally  _ anything _ else," Mark mutters into the neck of his hoodie.

He doesn't want to think about ghouls and ghosts or the inane dribble that constantly streams from YangYang's mouth. Half of the time he just nods and waits until YangYang's lost for breath or he tires himself out. But nights like tonight—nights like Halloween— YangYang is an overcharged battery, surging with energy that lasts hours and hours on end. Mark's exhausted just watching him.

And a tad bit frustrated. And a whole lot of pissed off.

Mark's knits his brows together. He should be heading to the frat house by now, in the costume he had searched weeks for (and spent more than he's willing to admit on). He should be spending his night chatting up various fraternity members that he cares less about and the one he cares about the most—red-rimmed cup to his lips as he tosses back drink after drink of some concocted punch until he's too shitfaced to function.  _ That's _ the Halloween Mark imagined. Not pounding across campus in his pajamas, watching YangYang's latest desperate attempt.

"Parties are a dime a dozen," Mark catches the tail end of YangYang's rant when YangYang peeks back at him to ensure Mark's still following. "But we've only got one shot to make this work and tonight's the night."

"So does that mean after this I'll never get roped into another one of these "adventures" again?" Mark tries.

YangYang slows to a stop when the cemented sidewalk shifts to a cracked cobblestone—the indicative landscaping of the research department building. It's the only outdated building left on the entire campus, preserved for historical purposes according to those that frequent it. In the light of day, the building has always appeared outdated. Shutters on the outside of each window spanning up story after story. Colored a shade of red so vibrant that it appears comically out of place compared to the surrounding remodeled buildings on campus. Comical in the daytime, that is. Under the cloak of night, the building looks like something out of a horror movie as the leave-barren trees scratch against dilapidated bricks.

Mark watches Yangyang's breath seep out in a chilly puff as he digs into the pockets of his jacket and unfolds a worn piece of paper, tattered at the corners. The paper is an aged yellow, several shades from its original crisp white, and the writing on it is crude and barely legible written dark green— _ crayon _ ?

"Is that—"

"Article 3, Line 12 of our friendship contract," Yangyang points at a faded piece of writing on the paper. " _ I, Mark Lee, will always support my best friend in question in all of his dreams no matter how silly, stupid, or how much trouble we get in _ ." Yangyang taps the bottom of the page. "That's your signature right there, Mark."

"Yangyang we made that in second grade I can't believe you still have that," Mark reaches to grab the paper only for Yangyang to tuck it away safely in his pocket. "I barely even knew what a signature was back then."

Yangyang snorts. "I'm sure  _ that'll _ hold up in court."

"Dude that thing also says that if we're not married by twenty-three that I'd either marry you or Hyuck," Mark blinks.

Yangyang scrunches his nose and angles his body away. "Yeah well, you can save that unbridled passion for Hyuck because I'm already working on something."

"The only thing you're working on is securing your admission into an insane asylum, you lunatic."

Mark startles when Donghyuck appears next to him, seemingly out of thin air, zipping his black puffer jacket up. He'd kept mum about what his Halloween costume was all month, only offering that he would work smarter and not harder, saving his pennies for more important things. The costume itself is more in the makeup than it is in the clothes—a realistic red scar slicing across his right eye rimmed in black liner and the honeyed brown of his left eye is well-hidden behind a milky white lens. His lips are stained red, faint lines of lipstick drawn designlessly from the corners, and trickles of fake blood congeal against his neck in the cold air.

"Me?" Yangyang balks. "Have you seen what you look like? What in the hell are you supposed to be?"

Donghyuck wedges his tongue into the pit of his cheek. "I'm a serial killer and you're about to be my first victim." He bounces in his leather pants when a strong breeze picks up and shivers. "What are you two talking about anyway?"

"Yours and Mark's marriage."

Donghyuck reddens at the cheek, offsetting the rose-colored blush already there and sputters alongside Mark's own embarrassed clamoring.

"Dude, we're not getting married!" Mark exclaims, wincing as his voice echoes through the night.

"That's not what—" Yangyang whips out the paper again, "—this contract says."

Donghyuck narrows his eyes, leaning in to get a good peek of the paper, jaw slackening in realization. "Do you just carry that thing around with you?"

"I carry  _ everything _ with me." Yangyang pats his tactical backpack.

Donghyuck looks towards Mark, skin staining darker when their eyes meet, and quickly looks away. "Well, I'm on my way to the Sigma Gamma Pi party," he says, hands in pocket. "So good luck with...whatever it is you two got going on. I'll be bobbing for apples in an open keg of beer and slamming down enough glow in the dark Jello shots to turn my vomit neon." Mark whines in the back of his throat, directing pleading eyes towards Yangyang but the latter ignores him, giving Donghyuck a two-finger salute.

"And we'll be here, making history," Yangyang says wrapping a tight arm around Mark's shoulder. "Isn't that right Mark?"

"Take pictures of Lucas in his costume will you?" Mark pleads.

Donghyuck frowns and pulls out his phone with an exaggerated gasp. "Wouldn't you know it? No storage space left," he shrugs before holding up the peace sign. "See you guys on the other end of the night."

Mark watches after Donghyuck until his silhouette blends into the night and the clacking of his heeled boots dies in silence. He tries not to picture it—the Sigma Gamma Pi house covered in decorations, people drinking, dancing, partying, laughing.  _ Lucas _ . He desperately tries to rid his thoughts of what Lucas's costume might be. A sexy Spartan warrior. A sexy superhero. A sexy police officer. No matter what costume his mind conjures up, the image of Lucas, chest bare, muscles on display, is unshakeable and frustration lodges in the back of Mark's throat.

"You ready best friend?" Yangyang beams, hugging Mark closer to his side.

"Get your hands off of me."

* * *

Contrary to the Research building's rough exterior, the inside is the direct opposite—shiny, white, and polished down with bleach and antibacterial cleaner. It's almost clinical and suffocating like the halls of a hospital and Mark takes extra care not to touch anything or leave a trail as Yangyang leads him deeper within. Through the smudgeless windows, Mark sees a few students in different lab rooms, donned in pressed white coats or garbed in some sort of hazmat suit standing before a ventilator hood. Perhaps it's the life of a science major—staying late after class, finishing projects up on a Saturday night, Halloween night at that—but Mark doesn't quite understand the dedication or determination at all. He's never put forth more than the bare minimum of effort for his major. He sighs. That would probably explain why he's on academic probation in the first place.

"How do you even have access to this building anyway?" Mark asks, steps stuttering as Yangyang pauses for the automatic doors to slide open, revealing the next sector. "Wasn't the ParaSci department barred from using the building after that almost three-alarm fire freshman year?"

The doors hiss close behind them and Yangyang snorts. "Those are minor details. We're no more dangerous than letting a Chem major near a Bunsen burner." He nods towards a window and Mark peeks into the classroom, eyes widening as the guy inside scrambles in panic to contain a small flame surging from his beaker. Point taken.

"I'm just trying to make sure you don't get me in any more trouble than what I'm already in," Mark breathes, following Yangyang's lead. "How am I going to tell my mom I got put on academic probation for a plagiarized paper?" The groan echoes down the empty hall, loud enough to reverberate into a few of the classrooms, drawing the attention of their occupants. Mark offers a sheepish smile in apology.

"Hmm that's a good question," Yangyang stops before an elevator, pulling his student ID from the retractable cord and scanning it on the sensor. "Having parents nearly 5000 miles away back in Germany, I don't know what to tell you." They step into the elevator and Yangyang presses the button for the basement level with a content hum. "I used to hate that my parents only speak Mandarin and German, but it comes in handy when I have to translate those phone calls the department leaves on their voicemail." He clicks his tongue and grins, all teeth. "As far as they know, I'm a straight-A student."

Mark huffs, head against the wall. "And what will you tell them when you get expelled and end up turning weiners at  _ Devil Dogs _ ?"

"Work-study with future plans of owning a franchise. They'll be ecstatic."

The elevator opens to a small box of a room, tile floors, large metal racks lining resin walls, holding boxes of gloves, suits, surgical masks, and the like. It's quiet inside, save for the dripping faucet of the sink in the corner and the fluorescent lights are so bright that it makes Mark's head throb.

Yangyang turns to face him, shrugging his backpack onto the ground. "Alright, get naked."

"Excuse me?" Mark blinks.

Yangyang tilts his head to the side, mouth twisted. "Dude, we're about to enter a sterile area. All outside sources of bacteria have to stay in the anteroom. Clothes included." He moves over to one of the metal racks, opposite the only wall with a large window peaking into an empty lab room, and grabs a folded hazmat suit and disposable booties. "Come on. There's no one here but us and I've  _ seen _ you naked. It's nothing special."

Mark sucks his teeth and snatches the items from Yangyang's hand. "You're legit on thin ice with me. Chill."

He unfolds the jumpsuit carefully, catching the pair of black vinyl gloves before they hit the ground. It all seems a bit overkill for something Mark's sure will take less than five minutes once they actually get started. Yangyang has a track record full of so many failed devices and plans gone awry that he could write a book on tenacity. Of course, he'd probably plagiarize the table of contents.

It's not Mark's first walk in the park with one of Yangyang's "genius" inventions. There was the  _ Xtractor _ , a proposed exorcism device that had been nothing more than a glorified vacuum. Then there was the  _ Ghost GPS _ for tracking ghosts, comprised of a fragmented motherboard, duct tape, triple-A batteries, and Donghyuck's beloved iPod, gifted to him in the eighth grade. Donghyuck had broken both the gadget  _ and  _ Yangyang's arm when he had found out. And the latest of Yangyang's inventions, the  _ Specter Deflector _ , designed to repel ghostly advances, had been a mere electronic belt good for attracting a swarm of lightning bugs. If history is recursive, and Yangyang is as predictable as his bad habits, Mark will only be plagued for about twenty more minutes with enough time to grab his costume and head to the party.

Mark takes off his hoodie, setting it on the metal bench in front of the racks, and smooths the wrinkles from his white t-shirt. "I get the suit, but are the gloves necessary?" He unzips the hazmat suit, leg raised to step inside when his eyes dart to Yangyang, completely shirtless, eying his own chest.

"Do you think my nipples look weird?" Yangyang asks, glossing his fingers over his areolas.

"Dude," Mark straightens tall, brows pulled tight in a frown. "Why in the hell would you ask me that?"

"Who else am I gonna ask?" Yangyang looks up. "Come on. You gotta tell me if they look weird."

"Let's be clear," Mark says, stepping his foot through the leg hole of the hazmat suit, kicking his discarded pants aside. "I only gotta do one thing tonight. Either I help you with this thing or tell you about your nipples. Which one is it gonna be?"

Yangyang pauses, actually weighing the options in his head and Mark, for the first time in their entire thirteen-year friendship, prays for the former or at the very least, something to distract from the latter. What he doesn't expect are his prayers to come in the form of the bathroom door near the automatic entrance of the buffer room clicking unlocked and the door handle twisting.

"I thought you said we were alone!" Mark hisses, jumping into the suit and pulling the zipper high enough to cover his boxers.

"I thought we were!" Yangyang responds with just as much panic, growing rigid when the door yanks open.

The guy looks familiar—white-blond hair, thin wire-frame glasses, thick brows—definitely someone Mark's seen around campus once or twice, but Yangyang's lanky form shines beneath a sheen a sweat settling on his reddening skin, like the guy's presence is both a blessing and a curse. Yangyang covers his nipples before Mark can point out how hard they are.

"Yangyang," the guy slows, hands beneath the automatic hand sanitizer dispenser. His eyes flit to Mark briefly, smile polite, before returning to Yangyang's half-naked form. "Hi."

"Dejun!" Yangyang's voice cracks and Mark stifles a laugh in the crook of his elbow watching Yangyang's hands spread wider across his nipples. "What—uh, what are you doing here? On a Saturday night? Aren't you—I mean, I figured you'd be out...on Halloween like everyone else. Not that you can't be here! It's totally, like cool that you're—that you're here." 

  
  


Mark raises his brow.

"I had a couple of assignments to finish up," Dejun smiles, grabbing a fresh pair of gloves and booties off the rack. "You don't get much free time when you're a double major but—" he looks back at Yangyang and smiles, "—it's a living." He snaps the booties over his shoes and pulls on the gloves, dark brows arched. "Why are you half-naked?"

"He wanted me to check his nip—" Yangyang's elbow flies to Mark's ribs before he can finish.

"This is my friend Mark," Yangyang races out. "He's helping me with a little project of my own. Truly a treasure, isn't he?" Mark hacks out a cough from the impact and offers a hard sideeye.

"Well," Dejun nods at Mark, eyes sympathetic, "don't let me stop you guys. I'll be finishing up in here." He points at the buffer room behind him, disappearing behind the automatic doors that quickly seal shut. Yangyang moves further into the anteroom, eyes glued on Dejun through the window separating both rooms, lips parted, distracted enough to nearly trip over his own two feet.

Mark sticks his arms through the sleeves of the jumpsuit and zips it all the way up. "So that was weird," he says, walking over to Yangyang. "I don't think I've ever seen you so...sweaty. What's with you and this guy?"

"Xiao Dejun," Yangyang groans, watching Dejun's every move from behind the glass. "A double major in both Chemistry and Biology—he respects the sciences, even the paranormal." Yangyang pulls on the rest of his suit, zipping it tight. "God Mark, I'd let him dissect me if he smiles at me when he asks."

Mark snickers. "Is this that thing you're  _ working on _ ?"

"It's a work in progress, yes."

Mark rolls his eyes and holds up the black vinyls. "Gloves? Necessary?"

"Oh absolutely," Yangyang tugs on his own pair, pulling them tight against his skin. "We wouldn't want the machine confusing your DNA with the ectoplasm."

"Of course not," Mark blinks, slowly donning the gloves. "What type of machine is this exactly?"

Yangyang grabs the final piece of their suits from a tall metal cabinet, snapping the helmet hood snug on Mark's head before adjusting his own. "Not out here," he says, foggy breath steaming up the plastic face panel. " _ The walls have ears _ isn't just an expression around here." For Mark's own sake, he doesn't ask for elaboration.

The door in the far back corner of the room had gone unnoticed until Yangyang leads them over to it, removing the brightly colored hazard posters and 'Do Not Enter' sign taped to the door. He tears down the thin strip of caution tape connected to the doorknob and the door's hinges, balling it up and tossing it in the trash before pulling out a silver key amongst his own colorfully painted ones.

"Are you sure we're supposed to be going in here?" Mark asks when the door creaks open to reveal a set of stairs descending into obscure darkness.

"If we weren't, would I have a key?" Yangyang asks.

"How  _ do _ you have a key to a restricted area?"

Yangyang shrugs, taking the first steps down onto the creaky stairwell and beckoning for Mark to follow. "I got them from Professor Fargus."

Mark stops on the first step. " _ Professor Fargus _ ? Isn't that the crazy guy that got fired and was deemed mentally unfit to teach?"

"He was not mentally unfit!" Yangyang glares. "The university just didn't get his methods of pedagogy."

"Dude he was  _ committed _ ," Mark blinks. "To an actual institution. That's far beyond being an "eccentric" professor."

"Whatever! We're not here to debate the school's clear violation of one man's freedom of speech. We're wasting time." Yangyang pulls out his cellphone, sealed tight in a zipper sandwich bag, and fumbles with the screen until he manages to turn on his flashlight. He nods for Mark to close the door behind them and Mark does so reluctantly, following Yangyang deeper into God knows where.

"As you may know, since I've told you time and time again," Yangyang says, "this universe is full of natural ghost portals. The Darvaza crater, the rings of Saturn—there's a reason why no one alive has lived to tell the tale of what's actually at the Bermuda Triangle."

"Pretty sure it's just water," Mark mumbles.

"The point is—many people in my field spend much of their life studying these natural portals in hopes of gaining access to the spirit realm on the other side," When Yangyang reaches the bottom of the stairs, or what Mark presumes to be the bottom, he turns to face Mark, light to his face, shadows beneath his grin. "I have created something  _ far better _ ."

The lights to the basement flicker on and aside from the expected sealed crates and packaged lab material packed against the walls, a massive octagonal-shaped door looms over them, deeply embedded within the largest of the four walls. A large red light glows above the door, droning out a monotonous buzz that goes unnoticed after a couple of seconds.

"Yangyang," Mark stops, mouth falling open. "What...is  _ this _ ?"

"Mark Lee," Yangyang moves next to him and extends his arm towards the display. "I introduce to you the very first prototype, artificial ghost portal!"

It's bigger than Yangyang's usual contraptions and though Mark is hesitant to admit it aloud, it's far more impressive than anything Yangyang's ever shown him or Donghyuck. It lights up, it makes noise, and if Mark had truly belonged to the cult of believers, he'd actually think the thing might work. It's definitely a believable farce.

"How—" Mark steps closer to the door and rests his hand against the metal trim of the octagonal ring. "How in the hell did you build this?"

Yangyang kneels at the foot of the portal, fiddling with a bunch of wires. "That Engineering minor isn't going completely to waste, I’ll tell you that," he shrugs. "Plus all those computer science books I used to read for fun in fourth grade doesn't seem like such a bad thing now, do they?"

"No they don't," Mark drags his eyes across the portal and then to Yangyang. "Yo, why don't you just change your major to Engineering? You know, full time? Clearly, you got a knack for this type of thing. This is hella impressive."

Yangyang's fingers pause over entangled wires. "What?"

"I'm just saying," Mark shrugs, elaborating when he meets mirthless eyes. "Engineering is such a sure thing. It'd be a walk in the park for you."

"But I don't  _ want _ a walk in the park," Yangyang stands up. "Maybe I want something challenging, like a frantic sprint through the graveyard. Mark, I'm showing you something that could change the game of paranormal science as we know it!"

"And what exactly  _ do _ we know about it, man?" Mark asks on reflex, tongue sharp. "Undocumented encounters? Baseless theories? A good feeling? How are you gonna live off of that?"

Yangyang chuckles, nodding slowly and savoring each word. "Wow," he scoffs. "I would've absolutely expected this from Donghyuck but not from you. Not when you know what it's like for someone else to take talk you down from your dreams." Mark sucks in a breath, tasting guilt on his tongue. "Your advisor may have fed you that capitalistic bullshit but I'm not changing my major. Not after this. I've got a good feeling about this." Yangyang yanks the remaining cords from their knot and plugs them into the outlet.

"You know I didn't mean it like that," Mark sighs.

“But you  _ did _ mean it.”

“Yangyang—”

"Nah it's cool," Yangyang doesn't look at him. "You never believed in yourself. Why should I believe you'll believe in me."

And that stings. Like hell. Like salt in an open wound—agitated, poked and prodded at until it bleeds fresh blood. It's nothing less than what Mark deserves. Yangyang is a lot of things on the spectrum, but he's undeniably a good friend, supportive of anything and everything Mark chooses as long as it's in the name and pursuit of happiness. He had been the first person Mark had confessed his passion for fiction writing to and the first person that believed in him. He had always been Mark's biggest fan when Mark circulated his own handwritten comic book in the third grade and when the other kids teased Mark, Yangyang always threatened to hold a seance, just to tattle to their dead grandmothers. Yangyang had always been Team Mark through and through. A little reciprocity isn't a lot to ask for. It’s well overdue.

"I'm sorry," Mark says. "I promised you I'd help—and all things considered— I'm still gonna do that. So, what can I do to help?"

Yangyang looks at him, unimpressed. "You wanna help? Just stand back there and get ready to eat crow." Mark holds up his hands in defense and leans against a stack of crates as Yangyang weaves around to a panel near the portal's entrance. "This is an ecto-filtrator—used for collecting ectoplasm, the sticky stuff ghosts leave behind sometimes when they cross between realms. Put enough ectoplasm in the filtrator and the portal uses the sample to generate an entrance in and out of the ghost realm."

"And you found this stuff where?"

Yangyang snorts. "Please. This whole town is a walking burial ground. Ectoplasm is everywhere if you look hard enough." He steps backward until he's aligned with Mark again, tiny remote in hand. "And now, with a push of a button, I make history!" He mashes his button with his thumb, triggering a loud whirring from within the portal that makes Mark hold his breath.

And then nothing.

"What?" Yangyang exclaims. "Why isn't it working?!"

"Maybe...not enough ectoplasm?" Mark tries, but the glare Yangyang shoots him is unwelcoming to attempts at lightheartedness.

"I don't understand," Yangyang presses the button again and the machine fails to start up at all this time, red light shutting off completely from overhead. "Everything's hardwired correctly, the sample's there—" Yangyang narrows his eyes. "It's you and all of your bad vibes, Mark!"

"Yo, what?!"

"These types of things run off faith, trust, and good vibes, and you and your cynical  _ fat _ ass are throwing off the ratio!"

Mark snorts. "Me and my  _ fat ass _ gave up a Halloween party for you. I could've been hanging out with Lucas tonight but instead, I'm here with you playing make-believe."

"Just tell it that you believe," Yangyang pushes Mark towards the portal. "Tell it you believe in ghosts and she'll work."

"I  _ believe _ you're crazy," Mark deadpans. "I'm not doing that."

"Mark!"

"Look, what I  _ will _ do is help you find out what's wrong with it," Mark removes the foggy helmet from his head and shakes the damp fringe off his forehead. "Maybe something's plugged in wrong or something. It might not work but it should at least come on right?"

Yangyang takes off his own dome helmet and exhales. "Yeah, I guess. Just—will you check the inside? Make sure no wires are loose?"

Mark nods. It's the least he can do.

Yangyang manually overrides the portal, prying the large metal doors open, and Mark steps inside. The interior is a long tunnel, stopping a few feet short from the entrance, walls composed of bolts, computer chips, and metal panels. Nothing looks too out of the ordinary, but then again Mark has no idea what he's looking for. There's nothing that even looks like a wire inside of the portal, let alone anything that can detach or fall off. Just a lot of silver and a lot of metal.

"Do you see anything?" Yangyang calls somewhere distant.

"That depends on what I'm  _ supposed _ to see," Mark yells back, peeling the gloves off his hands. He wipes his sweaty palms against the plastic fabric of the suit and fingers through his hair. "Everything looks relatively fine to me."

"Well, what  _ are _ you seeing?" Mark doesn't miss the thick layer of sarcasm in Yangyang's voice. He clicks his tongue.

"Metal, Yangyang. I see lots of shiny metal. Now can I get out of here? It's hot as hell in this shaft."

"Just keep looking!"

Mark tosses his head back and closes his eyes. 

_ Supportive friend. Supportive friend. I'm being a supportive friend. _

Opening his eyes back he scours the portal again, carefully this time, in case skepticism plays a part in overlooking details. "I see metal," he hums out loud, continuing when Yangyang doesn't answer him. "A motherboard, metal, metal,  _ more metal— _ " he stops at the sight of a new panel, one he hadn't noticed before, sticking out of the left wall of the portal in the far back. He moves closer to it and sighs when he's close enough to read it. Even geniuses have their flaws, he supposes, and Yangyang's is putting an 'off/on' switch  _ inside _ of a machine. 

He grazes the red button with his fingers and pushes it in, clicking his tongue when the machine lights up, an electric blue beam coursing through every visible crevice from within the portal's core. The portal whirs with increasing speed like a surging engine, growing louder and louder with each passing second.

So loud, that Mark misses Yangyang's frantic yelp, laced with warning.

The sparks flying before Mark's eyes, distracting him from the initial pain of electricity surging through his fingertips and into his core, exploding close enough to rid him of sight and sense of hearing. His vision fades black and it's quiet—there's nothing to focus on, sound dies before it's born and words never make it to his tongue. All that remains, is pain, settling in seconds later, hot, burning agony searing into his skin, coursing in his veins, and boiling his blood. Something snaps, deep within, and his heart revs up in shock, pumping erratically to push out what's foreign—what doesn't belong. As incapacitated as he is, riddled in pain, senses dwindling down to nonexistent, Mark has a few neurons of functioning mental capacity to understand what doesn't have to be explained.

He's dying.

He'd never thought much of death before and the idea of death had never scared him. He'd only thought of it as an all-encompassing pain and then nothing. Dead silence. But following his pain comes numbness, in a relief of waves, carrying his lighter self somewhere unseen. He doesn't see it, it's just a feeling, of being lifted and carried away.

He thinks of his mother. But only briefly. He doesn't want his last memories of her to be of how she takes the news.

He thinks of Yangyang having to find him, lifeless, cold. Dead. And that's just as bad.

And then he thinks of Donghyuck. How Donghyuck would stumble into the news unprepared and caught off guard, no opportunity for closure, no last goodbyes. Just forced separation.

It's the last bit of pain Mark feels before everything stills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [cc](https://curiouscat.me/AskEnergy)   
>  [twt](https://twitter.com/energeticalee)

**Author's Note:**

> Fueled by kudos and comments, please feed me💚
> 
> [cc](https://curiouscat.me/AskEnergy)   
>  [twt](https://twitter.com/energeticalee)


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